


A Fine Afternoon For A Stroll

by wendymr



Series: Busman's Holiday [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Early in Canon, Friendship, Gen, Some references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Gentlemen! How are you at hillwalking?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fine Afternoon For A Stroll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperscribe/gifts).



> Written for Paperscribe, who won two fics from me for guessing two of my [Yuletide](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/yuletide2013/tags/Lewis%20%28TV%29/works) fics. Her prompt was _Hathaway and Lewis aren't used to seeing each other casually dressed_ ; hope you don't mind that I wrote the second prompt first! And with many thanks to Uniquepov for BRing.

“Gentlemen! How are you at hillwalking?”

That’s certainly not on the list of potential topics Robbie Lewis expected to be faced with on this summons to Innocent’s office. Clearly, it wasn’t anything Hathaway’d been anticipating either, judging by the bloke’s puzzled frown.

Innocent’s expecting an answer, though. “Used to do a bit of rambling years ago, ma’am. Not sure how good I’d be on hills.”

“And you, Hathaway?”

Robbie lays a silent bet on _I used to walk a bit_. Instead, Hathaway shrugs. “I went climbing in Snowdonia during the Easter vac when I was up at Cambridge. Haven’t really done any since then.”

“Hmm.” Innocent studies them, then appears to make a decision. “Well, you’d better do a good job of looking convincing, then.”

“Ma’am?”

“Gloucestershire Constabulary has requested our assistance in relation to a series of attacks on hikers walking specific parts of the Cotswold Way,” Innocent explains. 

“I’ve seen reports, ma’am.” Hathaway’s well-informed, as always. “Always hikers in pairs, apparently, and while none of the attacks was fatal it’s been a close-run thing a couple of times.”

“Indeed – particularly since every attack has taken place on high ground and in an isolated area. The victims either weren’t capable of calling for help, or the emergency services couldn’t get to them as quickly as would have been ideal.”

These are all details he and Hathaway can read up on for themselves, if necessary; Robbie prefers to get to the point. “Where do we come in, ma’am?” 

“There are some details the police have kept out of the public arena: principally, that the attacks have all been on men walking together – never two women or a man and a woman. Though, in case you’re assuming the motive is homophobia, only one of the couples was actually gay. The others were father and son, and the rest friends, and there’s been nothing reported that suggests any kind of anti-gay prejudicial intent.” Robbie nods, though he’s inclined to keep an open mind on the gay angle. “There are other similarities,” Innocent continues, “which will be detailed in your briefing with the SIO in Stroud. So, Lewis, to answer your question: where you and Hathaway come in is that you will be spending two or three days ostensibly on a walking holiday in the western Cotswolds.”

Bait, in other words. Well, it’s not as if he hasn’t done undercover work before, and they’ll no doubt be laden down with technology designed to keep them safe while identifying the attacker or attackers. From what he remembers of his own casual skimming of news stories on the subject, the victims were struck by some type of blunt instrument – so no guns or knives, and that’s definitely a relief.

There is one thing that concerns him, though. “Ma’am, I’m fine with this for me, but Hathaway’s not done anything like this before.”

“There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there, Lewis? I’m quite sure that Sergeant Hathaway will be fine. Won’t you, Hathaway?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Of course, there’s nothing else Hathaway could say. Robbie pulls a face; he shouldn’t have said anything. Now his touchy young bagman’s going to know that he had doubts about the lad’s abilities. “What’s our cover?” Hathaway continues. “A couple on a romantic weekend getaway?” the bloke continues, straight-faced but so bloody facetious Robbie could strangle him. He just _knows_ this is Hathaway’s revenge for what he just said about his sergeant’s inexperience.

It’s almost worth it, though, for Innocent’s face. “I hardly think so, Hathaway. Can you think of a less convincing romantic partnership than you and Inspector Lewis? No.” She reaches behind her and picks up a folder. “I considered making you father and son, but that’s not particularly convincing either – the genetics are all wrong. I finally settled for uncle and nephew, and if anyone asks, Lewis, it’s a relationship by marriage.”

Hathaway glances at him, the picture of innocence – though there’s an expression in his eyes Robbie doesn’t trust at all. “Does that mean I have to call you Uncle Robbie?”

* * *

James zips up his rucksack and carries it to the door. Five minutes until Lewis is due to pick him up for their “family” getaway to Dursley, in Gloucestershire. He’s in jeans and a long-sleeved band T-shirt, with a khaki waist-length jacket ready to put on once his boss gets here.

What will Lewis be wearing? He’s been placing bets with himself ever since Innocent gave them this assignment. What would his governor think appropriate for a weekend of walking in the country? James still remembers that crime against good taste that Lewis was wearing when he picked the man up at Heathrow. Lewis’s taste in business apparel is fine, if a bit conservative, but in the year and a bit they’ve been working together James has yet to see his governor in casual clothes.

A car pulls up outside. It’s Lewis’s grey Vectra, so James grabs his rucksack and jacket and heads out before Lewis needs to get out of the car.

“Evening, Hathaway.” Lewis nods at him. 

“Good evening, sir.” A quick glance is enough to take in the navy corduroys and shabby dark blue anorak his boss is wearing, which definitely looks like it’s seen better decades. 

Lewis backs out onto the road. “Think we’d best come up with something better than that. If you’re supposed to be me nephew – daft idea if ever I heard one – you wouldn’t call me sir. And before you say it, you’re not callin’ me Uncle Robbie.”

James’s lips quirk slightly. “What, then? Uncle Lewis, as all good Victorian children would?”

That gets him a grumpy scowl. “We’ll be Robbie and Jim, all right?”

“Um.” His turn to pull a face.

“What?”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I prefer James. I realise it reinforces the public-school stereotype, but...”

“Yeah, but you went to public school.” Lewis’s smile is wry. “I still wonder what Innocent was thinking. Who’d imagine a posh lad like you had a Geordie uncle?”

James shrugs. “Every family has a black sheep.” Before Lewis can react, he jerks a thumb at his own chest. “You only tolerate me for your sister’s sake. It’s all right, I understand.”

“Me wife’s sister, if we’re using Innocent’s story,” Lewis says, and James winces. He’d very much prefer not to have brought that delicate topic up. “Mind,” Lewis continues, sounding as if he’s remembering things long past, but with fondness rather than pain, “Val’d probably have liked you. She could be funny that way.”

“They do say there’s no accounting for taste, sir,” James points out, and Lewis nods approvingly.

* * *

The journey takes about an hour and a half, all via A-roads and through some scenic parts of the countryside. It’s a fine summer evening, not too sunny but dry and clear, and the drive’s actually quite pleasant. They talk about the case, of course, discussing the information they’ve received from Stroud police and their own plan of action for the next couple of days, and then spend some time just chatting, Hathaway sharing some amusing anecdotes from his time at Cambridge. It doesn’t escape Robbie’s notice that most of the humour is at Hathaway’s own expense. Not someone who likes talking about his own accomplishments, that’s obvious.

He pulls into the guesthouse car park shortly before nine, and they get out of the car. It’s only as they’re getting their luggage from the boot that Robbie actually looks at his sergeant. It’s the first time he’s seen the bloke out of work clothes, and the lad looks at least half a dozen years younger all of a sudden, long and gangly in the skin-tight jeans and T-shirty thing, his youth accentuated further still by that near-skinhead haircut. Christ, police officers really are getting younger every day. Just not him; he feels ancient next to James.

“Come on,” he says, more gruffly than he intends. “Let’s check in, then head down the pub and make ourselves conspicuous.”

It takes ten minutes to check in and dump their bags in their rooms – James booked two single rooms; Robbie’d wondered, given his sergeant’s sometimes unpredictable sense of humour, whether he’d book a twin room for them to share, but he suspects that the intensely private nature he’s discovered Hathaway to possess is behind this decision. Ten minutes after that, they’re ordering pints at the nearest pub, one they already know is popular with hikers and climbers, and chatting with other customers about the routes they intend to walk over the next two days.

“Anything?” Robbie asks James an hour or so later as they stroll back to the B&B. He’s got a couple of likely suspects in mind, one a bloke who didn’t join in the conversation but seemed very interested in what the two of them were saying about their walking plans, and another who asked several questions about why they’d come to the area and what their relationship was to one another.

“Two worth a punt, in my view.” James is walking in a loping gait, shoulders hunched over, hands in his jeans pocket – and how he manages to fit them in there is beyond Robbie. He looks about as far from a copper as anyone could imagine. “I got the name of the one who was so interested in our itinerary, and I just happened to take a photo of the bloke watching you so intently. I’ll email our contact in Stroud once I’m back in my room.”

“You ‘just happened’ to take a photo?” Robbie’s eyebrow shot up. “How’s that, then? You trip and press a button or something?”

James’s lips twitch. “One advantage of my generation’s inseparability from our mobiles, sir. I pretended to be reading a text, casually turned in his direction, and took the photo. I doubt very much that he saw me.”

Robbie doubts that too. “Okay, you win the initiative prize for today.”

“Oh?” James grins. “What do I get?”

Robbie smirks. “The opportunity to do even better tomorrow.”

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, James can’t take his eyes off Lewis, who’s happily digging into a full English breakfast. Although he’s trying to be discreet about it, of course his governor notices. “Have I got something stuck between me teeth or something?”

“No... no, it’s just... Who are you and what have you done with my boss?”

It’s Lewis’s appearance – although the faded cords and obviously well-worn rugby shirt of yesterday were a complete contrast with his governor’s normal work attire, today Lewis is casual in a very different way. Mid-blue lightweight cargo trousers and a checked cotton shirt, with hair a bit less neatly combed than usual – and he hasn’t shaved, either – combine to make his boss look at least five years younger.

Lewis grins, a smile full of genuine humour, and James reassesses that. Ten years, maybe. “Not your boss here, _James_.”

“Sorry, _Robbie_. Point still applies, though.”

Lewis shrugs. “You can talk. You look like a student – a fresher, mind.”

“Hey, this is perfectly adequate clothing for hiking! Loose and layered.” No jeans today; army-surplus khakis and another long-sleeved T-shirt, with a short-sleeved one over it. 

“If my Lyn’d seen you last night, she’d have said you dress like Britney Spears.” Lewis takes a bite of sausage and leans back, clearly amused.

“I’m surprised you’ve even heard of Britney Spears, let alone know how she dresses.”

“Use your head, man! My kids were teenagers, or just about, when she first got famous.” Lewis shakes his head. “Used to tell Mark I’d take a marker to some of his posters an’ draw some decent clothes on the poor girl.”

James claps his hands to his chest. “At least I’m decently covered, you have to admit that.”

“Dunno about that. Those jeans yesterday would’ve got you arrested when I started out in Vice.” Lewis lowers his voice briefly, then is abruptly enthusiastic. “Anyway, time to get a wriggle on! I want to get that hill out of the way before lunch.”

Stinchcombe Hill, a fairly steep climb, and where two of the attacks have taken place – both in the morning. Right. James casts an assessing eye on Lewis as they leave the dining room; despite his boss’s youthful air this morning, he’s not an experienced hiker or climber, and James doesn’t want to be bandaging a sprained ankle or, worse, giving Lewis CPR before they finish.

Or, of course, summoning help after Lewis is injured by the attacker they’re here to catch.

* * *

It’s a lovely early summer day, not too warm, with a gentle breeze which will definitely help once they start climbing, Robbie thinks; he really is out of practice with this kind of thing. When the kids were younger, he and Val would often take them into the countryside for picnics and a ramble, but he was a lot fitter then. Now – well, he’s not exactly decrepit and he knows he’s in better physical condition than a lot of men his age, but he’s not James or anywhere close.

Still, no-one’s expecting them to break any records, and if they take five or six hours to complete today’s supposed four-hour walk, that’s fine. They’re here to present themselves as targets to the bastard they’re out to catch, after all. 

James is consulting the map and walker’s GPS device he’s brought with him, and he directs them to turn right just up ahead, a route that will take them through the centre of Dursley and out to the woods that mark the beginning of the hikers’ path. He’s half-listening to James pointing out some pieces of historical trivia about the village as they turn the corner, when his attention’s caught by a large black car heading towards them.

A hearse. It’s a funeral cortege.

For a moment, he can’t seem to find the power to move. His attention’s fixed on the cars, the mourners, and especially the flower-covered coffin in the back of the hearse. Christ. There’s a lump in his throat and he can’t see clearly. It’s been almost four bloody years, and he’s still reacting like this.

“Robbie.” The familiar voice is gentle in his ear, and there’s a hand at his back. “Robbie.” The repetition of his name is soothing, and the part of him that’s not still in shock recognises that James isn’t asking a question or mouthing platitudes; he’s just offering reassurance, calling Robbie back to the present.

He takes a deep breath and pulls himself together. “I’m fine. Let’s go.” 

James falls into step beside him again without a word, apparently expecting no acknowledgement of what just happened. Not for the first time, Robbie’s grateful that Hathaway asked to be his bagman; not many people he knows would intervene so effectively when something happens to remind him of Val, and then behave as if it had never happened at all.

He brushes James’s arm lightly in tacit appreciation, then gestures to the pub. “Reckon either of our interested parties from last night are anywhere around?”

“Haven’t noticed either of them – but if I were planning this, I’d be up on the hill waiting.”

“True. Anything from the Stroud team?”

“Neither of them are persons of interest, or have a record. Which, of course, only means they’ve never been caught, assuming our attacker is one of them.”

Robbie shrugs. “Be nice and tidy if it was one of them. But I’ve been in this game long enough to know nice an’ tidy’s not what you get most of the time.”

“Pity.” James opens the gate leading to the path. “You know what’d be nicer still? If we get the bastard within the next hour, then we could spend the rest of the weekend enjoying the walks without having to look out for an attacker. Shame to waste this lovely weather working.”

Robbie snorts as he follows James through. “Not what I’d be looking to do if we caught him.” At James’s questioning look, he adds, “Shame to waste this lovely drinking time.”

James just shakes his head. He’s young, Robbie reminds himself. He’ll learn.

* * *

By the time they finally arrive back in Dursley, more than six hours later, a drink’s not even on his governor’s agenda – well, not for at least a few hours. “Me legs ache, me back aches – I don’t think there’s a bit of me that doesn’t ache.” Lewis gives James a disgruntled look. “All very well for you to smirk. I’d’ve been fine with this when I was your age.”

James dips his head. “I’m not smirking, sir. Honestly, if I see so much as a small incline on our way back to the B&B, I think I’ll throw myself down on the ground and have a tantrum. Quietly, of course.”

Lewis almost bursts out laughing. “Thought you were an athlete?”

“That was almost ten years ago. I jog and play squash, but I’m also a smoker. What I’m not is a hillwalker.”

“Fair enough. So – hot bath and a lie-down for a couple of hours, then a taxi to the pub for dinner and a couple of pints, followed by an early night?”

James almost sighs with relief at the prospect. “No argument from me.”

* * *

They do actually walk to the pub later; Robbie’s got his second wind by then, and he’s feeling generous enough to allow Hathaway the smoking time. Also, by walking, it’s easier to see if they’re being watched.

In the pub, they return to the bar once they’ve eaten, again joining in conversation with others there, talking about their activities today and plans for tomorrow. One of last night’s persons of interest is there again: the silent one, who again is sitting some distance away, sipping brandies and just watching. Is he the one they’re after? Robbie’s not sure. His instincts tell him the bloke might be trouble, but does that mean he’s the sort who’d violently attack complete strangers?

James is more certain; he’s ready to bet that bloke’s their man. “We’ll see,” Robbie says as they walk slowly back to the B&B. “Or maybe we won’t, depending what happens tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” James shakes his head. “I can’t believe how knackered I am, and it’s only ten o’clock.”

“Yeah. Mind, it’s not just that we’re not used to the walking.” He keeps his voice low; they don’t want to be overheard. “That whole time, having to stay on alert without making it obvious that we’re on the lookout.”

“Yes. Eyes in the back of my head would be really useful on this case.”

“Knowing our luck, he’d creep up on you from the side an’ you still wouldn’t see him.” Robbie grins, then pats Hathaway on the arm. “I’ll leave you for your final smoke. See you at breakfast.” 

He lets himself into the guesthouse and wearily climbs the stairs, gratefully collapsing into the comfortable bed ten minutes later. It’s not until the morning that he realises he fell asleep with the light on.

* * *

It’s not just constantly being on the lookout that was exhausting, James reflects as he dresses the following morning. It’s being constantly terrified that he’ll fail, and as a result his boss will be severely injured, perhaps worse. True, none of the assaults so far have resulted in permanent disability, much less been close to fatal, but they’ve been debilitating. And what’s to say that this attacker, whoever he is, won’t get tired of just hurting his victims? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had graduated from GBH to murder – or even manslaughter. After all, all it’d take would be for Lewis to hit his head on one of the sharp rocks that dot the landscape around these hills.

It makes sense, James has reasoned, for Lewis to be the one this man would go after. He’s older, the shorter of the two of them, and – most people would guess – less able to fight back. Yes, Lewis is police-trained in unarmed combat and he’s pretty good at it, but that doesn’t compensate for being caught unawares, or hit from behind with a weapon. 

So, if Lewis is the most likely target, then James needs to be on his guard even more, to protect his boss. Lewis is _not_ going to get hurt, not if he can do anything at all to prevent it. Which means being hyper-alert at all times today, ready for anything.

At breakfast, Lewis looks surprisingly refreshed and alert, even cheerful as he discusses the day’s walk. As he’s done so often over the past year, he reminds himself once more that Lewis is not a typical DI. Unlike Knox, or the inspector James served under as a DC, he’s not one to delegate all the physical activity to someone else. He keeps himself in good condition, not just the minimum required to pass the annual physical, and if James outpaces him when they have to run that’s mostly because James has longer legs. 

“There is another hill,” James points out as he studies the map of today’s route. “But it’s not as high or as steep as yesterday’s.”

“Glad to hear it.” Lewis drains his orange juice. “Any likely spots, other than those we already know about?”

Places where the previous attacks occurred, of course. “Looks like there are quite a few treed areas, including all around Cam Long Down – that’s the hill we’ll be climbing. The summit’s clear, but we have to go through trees to get there.”

Lewis nods. “Sooner we go, sooner we can be in the pub. Unless we have to be somewhere else, o’course.”

In the local nick with their attacker, he means. Tempting though a pint or two later sounds, James is hoping it’ll be the police station, with their attacker in handcuffs – and not the local hospital.

* * *

“Now, this is more like it,” Robbie says as they stroll through the open countryside on the first stretch of the walk. It’s not completely flat, but the incline is shallow enough to make it easy. “Could almost imagine doing this for fun.”

Hathaway glances around at him. His face is flushed pink, not from exertion but, Robbie assumes, the sun yesterday and today’s mild breeze, and with the well-worn T-shirt and light windcheater he’s wearing he again looks barely old enough to be a copper. Unless, that is, the observer happened to notice his eyes. Hathaway’s not relaxed, as one might expect of someone out for a day’s walk. He looks anxious and fretful, and that’s not good. 

“This’d be a perfect day for rowing,” Hathaway answers, and he sounds distracted.

“Oi.” Robbie nudges him with his elbow. “Unless you’re playing the sulky nephew, you might want to look a bit more animated.”

“Eh?” Hathaway blinks, then gives him a sheepish look. “Sorry.” Then he smirks. “I could pretend to be pissed off with you if you like.”

“I can give you grounds,” Robbie retorts with a grin, sliding his rucksack off his shoulder and shoving it at James. 

“Thanks.” James pulls a face at him. “Naturally, I’m the beast of burden.”

“Natural order of things, yeah. That’s why you’re a _bagman_.”

“Never would have worked that out, s- _Robbie_.”

Robbie grins as they march onwards along the slight uphill gradient, James seeming more relaxed now. He’d never admit it to the cocky youngster beside him, but James Hathaway’s bloody good company – so much so that part of him’s even half-wishing that this was really just a day out, instead of an undercover op. Even more surprising is the realisation that he’s enjoyed being with James this entire weekend. Yes, he’s already aware that he likes sharing a pint and the odd pub meal with Hathaway, but that’s a couple of hours after work once or twice a week. This is different. 

Maybe they need to do this sort of thing a bit more – spending an occasional afternoon together off-duty doing something more energetic than sipping pints. Assuming James isn’t opposed to the idea of more time with his boss, that is.

Today, though, they have another job to do. He takes another scan of their surroundings under the guise of pausing to look at the scenery. Nothing yet. There are some other walkers in the distance, both further up the hill and back down towards Dursley, both in groups of four or five. No solitary walkers, and no suspicious movements...

Wait. Behind that tree to James’s left, something just moved. Could be nothing, but... He nudges James, all the same, but James has already seen; his body’s tense in a way imperceptible to someone who’s not trained to see, and Robbie realises that he’s also shifted very slightly. Ready for attack – no, ready to protect Robbie from attack. 

What, does the lad think his governor can’t take care of himself? Reflexes slowed down by age? That’s a discussion they’ll have to have later– 

A figure rushes out from behind the tree, and Robbie has just enough time to recognise him as the too-quiet bloke from the pub before he strikes.

* * *

James blinks groggily and forces his eyes open, shutting them again immediately as the bright overhead light sends stabbing pain shooting through his head. 

“Good to see you back in the land of the conscious,” the familiar voice of his governor comments, rather too cheerfully for James’s state of mind.

“I’m not entirely sure I am, sir,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. 

“Ah, give yourself half an hour or so an’ you’ll be right as rain.” Despite Lewis’s casual tone, the hand that presses to James’s shoulder is warm and reassuring. “I need to check in with the Stroud lot, make sure that bloody toe-rag’s under lock and key, but I’ll be back in a bit. If you need anything, there’s a big, beefy nurse outside who’ll come if you call.” Lewis’s grin is evident even without visual confirmation.

So he’s in hospital – Casualty, judging by the sounds all around him, of people moving here and there, some giving instructions, others calling for assistance. There’s also the rattle of equipment and trolleys being moved past, and – yes, that hurts. He winces again as a piercing beep causes shooting pain behind his eyes.

He tries to distract himself by thinking through what happened, but his mind’s a fog. The last thing he remembers clearly is the silent watcher from the pub launching himself on them from behind a tree– No, he corrects himself abruptly. Launching himself at _James_. Not Lewis, despite his certainty that it would be his boss the attacker would go after. 

And, obviously, he failed to defend himself adequately, while clearly his governor managed to apprehend the suspect and hand him over to the local coppers. And get James safely to hospital. 

Sounds like he was a bit useless, all told.

It wasn’t quite like that, he learns a bit later once he’s been given some painkillers and is able to sit up and talk to his boss once Lewis returns. The suspect went for James, yes, and James fought back – pretty effectively, Lewis insists – but the bloke managed to get in a lucky strike to James’s wrist with the large spanner he was holding, which they now assume is the blunt instrument used in the other attacks. Distracted by the pain, James hadn’t been able to guard against the blow to his skull that followed, and he went down like an oak tree, Lewis informs him. “Sorry I couldn’t stop him,” Lewis adds. “I tried, but he was too quick and I was in the wrong place. I did manage to trip him up after that and get the cuffs on him.”

And then, Lewis explains, he phoned 999 and called an ambulance for James as well as backup from the local force. James remembers none of that, though Lewis assures him that he was conscious for at least some of it, and able to answer the paramedics’ questions. 

The suspect’s now in custody and currently being questioned, and his home and car are being searched. The Stroud officers are confident they’ll find enough evidence, based on preliminary searches, to charge him with all the assaults, including the one on James. 

Lewis ensures that James’s injuries are fully documented and photographed: badly-bruised wrist – thankfully, not broken – and a nasty cut to the front of his head that required three stitches. Nothing serious enough to keep him in longer than overnight for observation, just in case of concussion, and he’ll regain full use of his wrist in a few days’ time.

It’s inconvenient, yes – but they caught the attacker, which makes the pain he’s suffering worth it. And he’s had a couple of days in which to get to know his boss a bit better, which is even more worth it.

Despite his headache, he smirks up at Lewis. “Think Innocent will send us on more undercover assignments, _Uncle_ Robbie?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Lewis grumbles. “Prefer to sleep in me own bed, thank you very much, and the beer’s crap down here, an’ all.”

“I’d have thought it’d be setting yourself up to be attacked that you’d object to, sir.”

Lewis grins wickedly. “Nah. That’s what sergeants are for. Good cannon-fodder.”

James rubs his wrist with a rueful grimace. “Glad to be of use, sir.”

“You’re training up nicely,” Lewis comments with a wink, before leaving him to rest.

* * *

By the time James is discharged the following morning, Robbie’s been to the Stroud nick to give his statement and hear the latest, and he’s phoned Innocent to update her. The suspect, Pete Willans, a Dursley mechanic’s assistant, has confessed to all of the attacks. He was keen to explain his motive, as well: apparently, he used to go walking in this part of the Cotswolds with two school-friends, but around six months ago they said they didn’t have time for it any more. He later discovered that they were still going hillwalking and, he said, it had just been an excuse to get rid of him.

“I go out every weekend I’m not working to look for them,” Willans had told Stroud CID. “It’s not fair that they lied to me. I know they’re still doing it. I just need to find them.”

“And what? Punish them for leaving you out?”

“They hurt me. They need to suffer as well, can’t you see that? But I’ve kept looking and I can’t find them.” 

So he’d attacked other pairs of men on the hills instead. A psychologist has been called in for an initial assessment, and Robbie’s guess is that Willans will be referred to a psychiatrist. He also strongly suspects it’ll turn out that the state of Willans’ mental health was probably why his former friends found an excuse to be rid of him.

Well, the Stroud team have all they need, and he and James shouldn’t need to come back for the trial, which will no doubt please Innocent. 

In the car, James is quieter this time, barely engaging in conversation. Head’s hurting, no doubt. And his wrist, most likely. “Reckon you’ll get a couple of days’ sick leave out of this. And desk duties until your wrist’s better.”

“I don’t remember you taking sick leave when you injured your eye, sir.” James sounds mutinous.

“Yeah, well, do as I say, not as I do, all right?” He glances at James as he slows for a roundabout. “If you’re not still on painkillers, I’ll take you for a pint tonight, all right? Seeing as we didn’t get to the pub yesterday after all.” 

“That’s kind of you, sir.” James sounds a bit more cheerful.

“As long as you don’t mind bein’ seen with a bloke old enough to be your uncle.”

“As long as you don’t mind being seen with someone who looks barely old enough to drink – yes, I know you saw the landlord ask me for ID that first evening, sir.”

“It’s all right. Give it a few years, you might even be able to shave,” Lewis says with exaggerated kindness.

It’s only the fact that he’s driving, he knows, that’s stopping James throwing something at him. With his good hand, mind.

“And then once you’re better, maybe we could go out for a ramble somewhere locally next time we’re off-duty?” Robbie suggests. “Unless this has put you off walking indefinitely, o’ course.”

“Somewhere locally that would include a pub on the route?” James is quick to ask.

“Essential requirement,” Robbie agrees. “Got to keep those joints lubricated.”

“More like our throats,” James suggests.

“That, too.”

It’s been a good weekend, Robbie concludes. They got their villain, and he’s got to know his sergeant better still – enough to know that over time they might even become friends. Even if James does dress like a female pop star when he’s off-duty. That’s nothing time and a bit of good advice won’t change.

“Just do me a favour, sir?” Robbie gives Hathaway a questioning look. James tugs with his good hand at the hem of Robbie’s navy coat. “Leave that awful anorak at home!”


End file.
